Shroudweaver shakes his head. ‘No. It’s too soon. I’m saving them for Crowkisser.’
Skinpainter’s eyes go wide. ‘A composite? Unbound?’
Shroudweaver nods.
Skinpainter stifles a laugh. ‘You haven’t got any more humble, have you?’
Shipwright smiles despite herself. ‘They know you too well, Shroud.’
Skinpainter shoots her a grin as they take Shroudweaver’s hands, running a thumb over frayed red threads.
‘Will this help us win?’ They flick their eyes at the mountain. ‘Will it keep them safe?’
Shroudweaver tightens his grip. ‘It will. I swear.’
Skinpainter holds his gaze for a moment, seems to find whatever they’re looking for.
‘I’ve not regretted trusting you yet, Shroud. But what about them?’ Their eyes again track along the battlements, stopping on Kinghammer’s bulk. ‘They’re expecting a grand reunion. And they’re tense as cats on a griddle.’ They pause. ‘There’s been a few complications I need to catch you up on.’
Shroudweaver sighs. ‘Complications. Of course. Well, we’ll do what we always do, Painter. Make it look like we’ve got everything under control, until we have half a clue what’s going on.’
Skinpainter shrugs resignedly. ‘Fine, I don’t have any better ideas.’ They roll their shoulders. ‘OK. Fuck. Best make it look good.’
‘Full theatrics?’ Shroudweaver asks.
Skinpainter grins. ‘Is there any other way?’
In response, Shroudweaver raises his red right hand, and begins unpicking the outer weaves. Keeps a tight hold of the dead, but throws in a stagger, as best he can. Playing to an audience with life and death on the line. He feels Smokesister’s bindings twitch around his ribs, and imagines her wry, disapproving smile. HoldsSkinpainter’s gaze as the bones of his hand slide loose from the tight-wound thread. ‘Do you think that sold it?’
Skinpainter’s posture never changes, only their voice, thrumming deep and soft. ‘I think they’ll eat you alive unless we do a bit more to convince them.’ They cock their head thoughtfully. ‘Although, I might be able to help with that.’
The old warlock pauses for a second, as their rags flare around them. Sinuous, hypnotic. ‘Don’t flinch,’ they murmur, stepping forwards. ‘Make it look real.’
Shroudweaver feels their broad arms embrace him. The shape of his old friend beneath their robes. Stark, muscular, strangely angled. A brief pulse of unexpected life along their flank.
Shipwright joins them, her arms a light band around his quickening breaths. As she closes the circle, the cheers from above are deafening.
‘They bought it,’ Skinpainter murmurs. ‘Depths and ice, they bought it. Precious little fools.’ As their chest begins to shake it takes Shroudweaver some time to realise they’re laughing. When Skinpainter speaks again, they lean close, their jaw grazing his skin. He glimpses an eye black as glass, alert, mirthful. ‘Come on then,’ they mutter. ‘Let’s help you upend everything. Again.’
68
Split the night down to blue.
—Northern slang for striking an impossible deal
Once they’re in, the days drip by like water down a well.
Thell holds itself tense, like a cornered beast.
Its people watch Shipwright and Shroudweaver as they move through the corridors, lean and wary. They eat well, but their food is served by hands that linger too long, or that flee like birds before storm. Their blankets are warm, but they wake to watching eyes in the night, flat and serious.
Curious children come up to them, chewing sweet roots, jaws working furiously, tugging stickily at their clothes and fingers. Their parents sweep them away, apologetically, efficiently. They’re not quite taboo, but close enough.
It’s no surprise to Shipwright. Thell is as she remembers. Angular, fierce, only partially softened by the steady glow of strange lights. The people are boisterous until she passes, falling silent as she approaches, unwinding into laughter in her wake. She sees no one she recognises, except for Skinpainter, and once, from a high gallery, a tall figure, capped with grey like a spear-point, her hard face lined with sadness. Could Belltoller have aged so heavily? She doesn’t get a chance to find out. The mountain swallows familiarity into its depths, keeping her at arm’s length. She’s the foreigner again. The stranger. The reminder that all is not well.
It’s no surprise that she sleeps fitfully, her hand on Shroudweaver’s ribs, the other clenching and unclenching next to her, hanking the sheets into fierce lumps. Something in the night won’t leave her alone. Her dreams are flecked with gold. She pitches restless. When she wakes, she coughs the taste of spiceand honey from her lungs and rinses it from her mouth with cold mountain water.
Skinpainter meets them most mornings. They are quiet, pensive, their barks of laughter slipping out from under long pauses. Kinghammer, they are told, will see them when he is ready. The mountain still keeping them at a distance. The old bear not yet ready to confront his past.
